Ten Hours
by morningdawn202
Summary: John was gone. John was gone and it was the absolute worst ten hours of Sherlock Holmes's life.


**Disclaimer: I own nothing to do with Sherlock.**

**Warnings: Angst and minor language **

**Rating: T**

**Ten Hours**

_0 hours 0 minutes 0 seconds_

"But seriously Sherlock," grunted John Watson as he struggled to keep up with his long legged companion, "How on earth did you know that man was bluffing?"

The tall consulting detective who always seemed to be exactly one step in front of his friend replied with words veiled only thinly with sarcasm, "How many times must I tell you, John. You cannot simply look, you must see!"

John did not dignify this statement with a response. He knew from far too much prior experience that Sherlock would expand on his words if he felt they were being ignored.

Sure enough after a few tense seconds Sherlock heaved a dramatic sigh and continued, "There was a diploma in his study."

"So?" prompted John.

"So," drawled Sherlock, "The degree was one in English literature. He was threatening to use a chemical bomb to blow up half the city. One does not simply learn how to construct something like that from the internet; it would take years and years of studying something rather different than literature. Therefore if he was lying about one bomb why not the others?"

"Which I suppose explains why that one on his chest didn't detonate," considered his partner.

Sherlock raised a single eyebrow. "Precisely," he answered smugly.

Really, the whole assignment had been a waste of time. The man had possessed nothing but empty threats. It had all been quite dull.

Then again, John Watson had certainly seemed enthralled in the mystery, Sherlock mused. It must be pleasant to be able to find wonder so often.

"Hey, stop right there you two!" a new voice called from ten meters away.

John halted but Sherlock would have kept on walking if his friend hadn't instinctively grabbed onto his coattail. Sometimes John Watson knew more about Sherlock Holmes than he had any right to.

Detective Inspector Lestrade marched over to the two men, his face red.

"What in the world were you thinking?" he demanded hotly. "Just what was going through those thick skulls of yours? I directly told you to wait for reinforcements before moving in! He was a madman with a bomb!"

"A fake bomb," placated John, only to shrink back slightly at the glare delivered onto him.

"I don't care if it was fake, real or made of candy!" cried Lestrade, "That is absolutely not the point!"

Sherlock took out his phone and studied it, only too obviously ignoring the steaming man in front of him.

"You needn't worry so, Inspector," he said, "I knew there was no bomb long before we entered the house."

All of the red drained from Lestrade's face and now he just looked tired. "That isn't the point either, Sherlock," he managed.

Sherlock shrugged, already board of the conversation. Wasn't there anything interesting around anymore?

Suddenly John smacked a hand onto his forehead. "Drat! I forgot my cane in that blasted house," he cried, turning around.

Lestrade called out after him, "John! We haven't even begun to process the scene yet!"

"I think that Sherlock and I already determined that there isn't a bomb Inspector!" John called back to him, "I won't be but a moment!" A second later he disappeared into the building.

Sherlock leaned against a telephone pole looking up at the sky. He could start home to B. Baker Street without John but then the other man would most likely be cross with him. Having a friend certainly was a complicated business; it was no wonder that he had never really tried it before.

**Crash! **Sherlock felt an enormous force hit him from the back nearly sending him to the pavement.

He and Lestrade spun around in unison. Two policemen lay on the ground, blown of their feet by the strength of the explosion.

The house was burning. Flames licked up the sides and thick black smoke wafted tauntingly into the air.

For a moment the scene didn't make any sense but then he remembered. John was in that house. Sherlock started running.

The world went red.

_0 hours 0 minutes 48 seconds_

Lestrade flung himself forward and tackled Sherlock to the ground. "You can't! Sherlock, listen to me, you can't go over there. We have to call the fire department!"

_John. _"Let me go," he cried, struggling in Lestrade's arms. There hadn't been a bomb. Sherlock himself had said there hadn't been a bomb! _John_! He had told John that it was safe.

With a moment of extreme strength Sherlock wrested out of Lestrade's grip and struggled to his feet. In a moment he was running towards the house again. _There hadn't been a bomb!_

Sherlock Holmes very rarely lost his composure. Sure, his temper and boredom often got the better of him, but not his composure. Right now however there were no rational or calculating thoughts running around in his brilliant mind. Only one though was making itself known.

Sherlock reached the house and was blasted by the heat of the red flames right before a steel pipe broke free of its grasp on the house 13 feet above his head and came crashing down on top of his shoulders.

The world went black.

_1 hour 23 minutes 7 seconds_

Hospitals were never a pleasant place to wake up in. Sherlock should know, he spent enough time in them when he was dealing with his little drug problem.

When his dark eyes opened the first thing he saw were the sterile white walls. Hospital, obviously. The second thing he saw was the clock on the wall.

Sherlock leaped to his feet, tossing the blanket aside and staggered for a instant, the world spinning but then he was out of the room and into the hallway.

A nurse looked up from her clipboard. She was young with dark circles under her eyes. Recently graduated from medical school and unused to the long hours of work. She would have to do.

She started towards him, her hands outstretched almost as if to ward him off. "Sir!" she cried, "You shouldn't be out of bed!"

"What happened?" snarled Sherlock. John would rebuke him for his utter lack of etiquette he thought ruefully. _John._

"You were brought in almost an hour and a half ago from the sight of an explosion," the nurse said nervously. _1 hour 26 minutes 38 seconds. _"You have pretty badly bruised shoulders and a possible concussion. You really shouldn't be out of bed-"

Sherlock cut her off, hissing, "Where is the other man?"

The nurse looked confused. "What other man?" she asked nervously.

The world was still spinning. "John Watson!" Sherlock cried, his voice raising in volume, "The other man who was in the explosion! Where is he?"

Understanding dawned in the woman's face but then her eyes narrowed. "Mr. Holmes, I've been on duty for the last ten hours. There was no other man."

The world went white.

_2 hours 46 minutes 23 seconds_

Lestrade had come to pick him up. He really didn't need to say anything, his face was an open book to Sherlock, but he did anyway.

"The firefighters looked everywhere but the house had burned to the ground. They said that there probably wasn't anything to find. Sherlock, I am so sorry. John was a good man.

John was the best man. "There was no bomb," Sherlock repeated for what seemed the thousandth time.

Lestrade winced. "No," he agreed, "But the perp was insane and paranoid. He may not have known how to make a bomb but he certainly knew the ingredients that he might need. It looks like he stored in them in the kitchen. With all those explosives any little thing could have trigged that explosion.

Stupid, stupid, stupid. Sherlock should have seen that. Why didn't he see that?

Inspector Lestrade studied his college closely. Sherlock was pale as a ghost and his shoulders were hunched as he sat on the couch in his and John's apartment. Well, not John's anymore. All of the easy confidence that he always carried himself with was gone. Sherlock Holmes looked like a completely different man than the one from three hours ago. _3 hours 4 minutes 56 seconds._

"Hey," Lestrade said hesitantly, reaching out and as if to touch Sherlock on the shoulder but stopping at the last moment, "It isn't your fault."

Sherlock leaped to his feet as if another fire had been lit underneath him. "Get out," he snarled.

"Sherlock,-" Lestrade started but Sherlock rounded on him, uncharacteristic emotion written all over his face.

"Get out!" he cried again and after a moment Lestrade deflated and turning, walked silently out of the door.

Shaking, Sherlock surveyed the apartment that already felt so _wrong_. _John. _Of course it was his fault! He was Sherlock Holmes and he had let his friend, his only friend, walk back into a house that was simply rip for an explosion.

The logical part of Sherlock brain tried to reason with his emotional side. He had never gone into the kitchen so how could he have known what lie there?

Useless excuse. Sherlock hated people who used excuses. He should have known!

Sherlock ran into John's now empty room and looked around in rage. Why was everything so untouched as if John would walk through that door at any moment?

His fist reached out and knocked the lamp of the bedside table. It crashed and that felt good.

Heaving, Sherlock upturned the cabinet and it thudded to the group with a satisfying bang.

Sherlock ran over the bookshelf and reached blindly for a book. He then proceeded to rip out every single page and toss them to the floor. Two other books followed. Then the bookshelf itself came crashing down.

As suddenly as it had come the fury fled from Sherlock's body. He sank to the perfectly made bed and observed the ruined room without a sound.

John would be so angry if he saw his room. A small smile tugged at Sherlock's lips at the thought but then it dropped off. John would never see it.

The world went grey.

_7 hours 34 minutes 12 seconds_

The phone rang. Sherlock looked sluggishly over at. It was the middle of the night. John always answered the phone.

Maybe it was Mycroft. Maybe it was the morgue.

"Hello?" Sherlock said, not really caring.

"Sherlock!" It was Lestrade. "We have him!"

"You have who, Inspector?" Sherlock asked, rubbing a hand over his eyes. It couldn't be the would be bomber; he had been arrested earlier that day. Before…

"John!" Lestrade's voice cried, tears and laughter in his voice, "Sherlock we have John! He's alive!'

The phone clanged as it hit the ground.

The world exploded.

_8 hours 2 minutes 16 seconds_

John watched in bewildered amusement as the emergency responders clucked around him. He had tried to tell them that he was perfectly fine, just a bit dirty but they seemed determined to panic. It was so dark outside. Just how long had he been stuck in that damned tunnel?

Just then a tall and familiar man strode into view and John smiled. He waved cheerfully at Sherlock as his friend made his way over but his moving hand stilled when he caught sight of Sherlock's face. It was… strained.

"Sherlock," he said, voice filled with concern, "Are you alright?"

The other man stopped right in front of John, looming over him but he said nothing. His eyes were bright.

Hesitantly, John reached out a hand to grip the front of Sherlock's long coat.

"Sherlock?" he tried again, unsure. Silence.

"Well I'm sorry that I'm so late," he tried, "I was getting my cane when I noticed the floor was a bit uneven. Seeing instead of looking right? Well anyway, I investigated and it led down to some sort of deep cellar. This guy really took paranoid to a whole new level. I guess that was when the explosion happened and something must have landed on the door hatch. I found a tunnel in the cellar and have been wandering around the channels since, completely lost. I'm sure you could have found your way out in like an hour but it was really complex. Anyway I popped out about a block away and called Lestrade and..."

John stopped, realizing that he had been rambling and Sherlock had yet to say a single word.

"Sherlock?" he exclaimed, "Well say something you daft fool!"

"You were dead," Sherlock whispered, "You were dead and now you're not."

It was such unSherlock thing to say that John found himself quite without a response.

A few moments passed before John cleared his throat and looking around at the chaos replied uncertainly, "Well, yes I suppose. Is that alright?"

Sherlock shuddered and took what seemed like his first real breath all day. He reached out a white hand to curl around the back of John's next, his fingers entwining in the grayish hair.

John looked up at him with soft, trusting eyes.

"Oh yes," Sherlock managed to say, "It's quite alright."

The world shifted back into focus.

_10 hours 0 minutes 0 seconds_

"Sherlock! What the _hell_ happened to my bedroom?"

Sherlock Holmes tilted back his head and laughed aloud.

The world shone brightly.

**Fin**

** Hey everyone! I really like this one and would love to hear what everyone thinks. Please R&R!**

**~md202**


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